Garland of Straw (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 2)

by Stella Riley

  ‘No,’ said Sam curtly. ‘I want to see him. Can I?’

  ‘Of course. If you present yourself tomorrow, I’ll—’

  ‘Not tomorrow. Now.’ Sam drew a long breath and met Bryony’s bewildered eyes. ‘I’m sorry. But it’s for Abby, you see. Justin is her husband and —’

  ‘And you like him,’ she nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘Like him? Just at this moment, I could murder him!’ Sam turned back to Gabriel. ‘I’m sorry to be importunate —’

  ‘But you regard this as an emergency.’ Sighing, the Colonel replaced his hat and directed a mocking smile at his foster-brother. ‘Sorry, Jack. Aside from telling you that I’m living on the corner of Friday Street and Cheapside, everything else will have to wait till another day. And meanwhile, I’m sure you won’t mind lending Mr Radford a horse. I draw the line at having him ride pillion on mine.’

  *

  By the time they arrived within the cold, stone precincts of the Tower, Gabriel had told Samuel more or less the whole story and discovered that an unlikely but very real bond appeared to exist between the Cavalier and the Leveller. Once inside, however, he simply led Mr Radford past the guards and along a short, vaulted passage to the cell occupied by Colonel Ambrose and unlocked the door.

  Justin was lying full-length on his pallet, one arm thrown across his face and, when the door opened, he did not immediately move. Then Samuel said, ‘I thought I was the one who was supposed to end up here?’ And the hidden face was suddenly uncovered to reveal an expression of torment, slowly shifting into shock.

  ‘Sam?’ Justin catapulted to his feet. ‘My God! How —?’

  ‘Blame it on the Colonel,’ said Samuel, jerking his head in Gabriel’s direction. And then, coming to the point with a vengeance, ‘Does Abby know where you are?’

  ‘No.’ The tone was flat and cold but the light eyes were haunted. ‘She must be frantic by now.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to realise it. Of course it would have been even nicer if you’d stayed at home where you belong and left the King to sink or swim on his own … but I suppose you couldn’t resist making the grand gesture.’

  ‘Stop it, Sam.’

  ‘Why should I? I trusted you to look after her, damn it – not go running back to the wars as if —’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ The sculpted face was perfectly white. ‘All right. I made a mistake and let myself get caught – and you can’t possibly say anything I haven’t said to myself a hundred times over. But blaming me won’t help Abby.’ He drew an unsteady breath. ‘It’s worse than you realise. She’s almost six months pregnant.’

  For a moment, Sam stared at him as though he couldn’t trust his voice. Then he said wildly, ‘And you left her?’

  ‘Obviously. But I didn’t bargain for being shut up in this place – or for what’s likely to happen next.’

  ‘And what is likely to happen next?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  Gabriel stepped through the door and closed it behind him. He said, ‘It depends on what they can charge you with.’

  Colonel Ambrose gave a short, sardonic laugh.

  ‘I’m dead, then.’

  There was an airless silence. Then Sam said, ‘If that’s your idea of a joke, it’s not funny.’

  ‘No. It isn’t, is it? And neither is this. I want you to go to Trent with a letter for Abby.’

  ‘You think I needed to be asked?’ Sam turned an opaque black gaze on Gabriel. ‘Can’t you do something?’

  ‘Unfair, Sam,’ said Justin sharply. ‘He’s already helped by bringing you here. You can’t ask him to save my neck as well.’ And, to Gabriel, ‘I owe you the truth – and somehow I don’t think you’ll misuse it. They’ll charge me, quite legitimately, with devising and implementing the ruse that took Pontefract. And if they find out who I am, they’ll also accuse me of breaking my parole not to fight again.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘It’s a technicality … but Justin Ambrose never took the oath. The man who did was the eighth Baron Templeton of Trent. And that, I’m afraid, is who I now am.’

  *

  While Colonel Ambrose was writing to his wife and Colonel Brandon was trying to decide how much further he was prepared to involve himself in the affairs of a man who had crossed his path purely by chance, Venetia was staring moodily out of the parlour window on to Cheapside and wondering how to pass the rest of the day.

  Her maid had arrived, along with her clothes – for which she was extremely thankful; she had cook and a sturdy girl to help with the cleaning; and, with the exception of the downstairs room which had plainly once been Luciano del Santi’s workshop, the rest of the house was now in pristine order. She had even replied to Sophia’s letter about the depressing quality of the harvest. In short, everything was going beautifully – except for her relationship with Gabriel and the desert it seemed to be creating in her soul.

  She heaved a morose sigh and wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, why she didn’t seem able to pull herself together and sort out the mess she had made of her life. Then her eye alighted on a familiar, flamboyantly-cloaked figure and, without any warning at all, she discovered that one’s blood really could run cold. For a fraction of a second, she froze. Then she flew out of the room and down the stairs into the street.

  Catching up with her quarry from behind, she hauled viciously on his cloak, half-strangling him in the process, and said furiously, ‘You malicious bastard – how dare you tell Gabriel that you were my lover?’

  Ellis continued coughing for rather longer than was necessary while he assembled the fragments of his customary sangfroid. This, of course, was a mistake – for it gave Venetia the chance to launch into a breathless and vitriolic assault on his manners, his morals and his intelligence. Then, still without allowing him to speak, she demanded to know whether wrecking her life was his sole, self-imposed mission.

  Seeing no point in wasting his charm, Ellis said sulkily, ‘I don’t know why you should think I’m here on your account. As far as I knew, you were still in Yorkshire.’

  ‘And but for you, I would be!’ she snapped. ‘Well? What are you doing here? Rescuing the Royalists in the Tower? Arranging to blow up Parliament? Planning to assassinate Cromwell? You’ll never manage to finish it, of course – but I’m sure it’s bound to be something spectacular.’

  He shrugged. ‘Not this time. I’m merely attending to a small business venture of my own. I’ve spent months setting it up – in between doing my best for the Cause – and I’m damned if I’m going to kiss it goodbye just to suit you.’

  ‘I see.’ The violet gaze regarded him witheringly. ‘Tell me something. Did you return to England to fight for the King or to make money?’

  ‘Both – and why not? The revenue from Steeple Park barely keeps me in boot-polish. And I can’t go back to Paris unless I can pay off some of my debts.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No you don’t. You’ve no idea what it’s like. I can put up with exile if I must, but not with penury as well. And why the hell should I? Brandon Lacey is mine by right. And if the King regains his throne, I’ll have it back.’

  ‘Yes. I can just imagine what you’ll do with it, too,’ said Venetia bitterly. Then, ‘There’s no point in continuing this conversation, except in one particular. Gabriel and I are living just across the street and if you interfere any more – or even come near us – I won’t be responsible for my actions. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Oh yes, sweetheart. I understand. You’ve fallen in love with the bastard, haven’t you? I’m disappointed in you – really I am. I thought you had more discrimination.’ He laughed. ‘Has he managed to bed you yet? Does he know what a hopeless lay you are?’

  For a moment, she stared at him so oddly he thought she was about to faint. Then, with a complete disregard for the passers-by, she struck him hard and accurately across the face and walked away, leaving him to become the butt of a good deal of coarse humour as the imprint of her hand flamed on his skin.


  Back in Luciano del Santi’s parlour and shaking in every limb, Venetia pushed aside Ellis’s final insult and acknowledged instead the fact that – for once in his life – he had spoken the truth. She loved Gabriel; and, in some small, locked chamber of her mind, she had known it for some time but been afraid to face it.

  Well, it was out now and part of her was glad. At least it went some way to explaining her damnable stupidity at Thorne Ash and her uncharacteristic cowardice since. She loved and respected and wanted him … and was frightened as much by the sheer intensity of it as by the knowledge that, short of a miracle, she couldn’t tell him. For though Gabriel’s whole life was a testament to fair play, he wasn’t the man to let himself be made a fool of twice; and a declaration of love at this stage was likely to produce exactly the kind of reaction she most dreaded.

  She considered telling him that she’d seen Ellis. She knew she ought to do so – because if he found out some other way, the heavens would fall. The trouble was that, in his present mood, Gabriel was would probably jump to the conclusion the meeting had not come about purely by chance. He was also likely to make various blistering remarks regarding what she might have told Ellis about their single night of intimacy. Consequently, since everything was quite bad enough already, she decided it might be best not to take the risk of mentioning Ellis at all.

  ~ ~ ~

  SIX

  Eden appeared in time for supper but Gabriel didn’t. Venetia was not surprised. She had become used both to his frequent absences and the fact that he made sure they were never alone together. So she sat down with Eden, picked listlessly at her food and, gradually becoming aware that the Major was doing exactly the same, eventually summoned enough interest to ask what was wrong.

  ‘What?’ The hazel gaze focused slowly on her face. ‘I’m sorry. I was thinking about a mutual friend whom I discovered this morning amongst our prisoners but almost failed to recognise.’

  Venetia laid down her knife. ‘Francis?’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘I … wondered. Was he at Colchester?’

  ‘Yes.’ Eden pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘He says it was a sort of hell – and judging by the way he looks, I can believe it. But I don’t know if I can do anything about his present predicament.’

  ‘I suppose that would depend on how many risks you’re prepared to take,’ remarked Venetia. ‘As I recall it, he was once your closest friend.’

  ‘I’m more than aware of it. But that was six years ago and the war has created a huge chasm between us.’ He saw no reason to add that Francis’s attempts to talk of Celia had done nothing to bridge the gap. ‘And though I’d like to help him for old times’ sake, I can’t just set him free. Not unless I don’t mind ending up in the Tower myself.’

  ‘I’d have thought there must be a way to do it without implicating yourself. But it’s entirely up to you, of course. I’m just glad Francis never promised not to fight again – otherwise he might have gone the way of Lucas and Lisle instead of merely spending the next few years in prison.’ She raised one cool brow. ‘I suppose you realise that Sir Lewis Dyve is still in the Tower for his part in the first war?’

  ‘Yes, damn it! But arranging an escape isn’t as easy as you seem to think,’ said Eden defensively. And then stopped as the door opened and Gabriel came in.

  ‘Dear me,’ he said gently. ‘I do hope you haven’t been waiting for me?’

  Venetia felt her insides turn into something closely resembling a butter churn and stayed sensibly silent.

  ‘No.’ Eden dropped back into his chair and poured himself another glass of wine. ‘If we did that, we’d starve. Are we allowed to ask where you’ve been this time?’

  ‘Talking to Henry Ireton.’ Gabriel discarded his hat and gloves and took his place at the board. ‘Although I suppose it would be more accurate to say that he has been talking to me. He’s not happy about Denzil Holles’s renewed presence in the Commons or the forthcoming talks with the King - or Fairfax’s refusal to do anything about either. In short, he’s seriously concerned about a myriad of things and that makes it very difficult to get a word in edgeways’

  ‘And what particular word,’ asked Eden, ‘were you striving for?’

  ‘Ransom.’ He transferred a now tepid and slightly congealed piece of pork from the platter to his plate and looked down on it without enthusiasm. Then, in response to his Major’s uncomprehending silence, he said, ‘After Colchester, Fairfax allowed every regiment its share of prisoners to be held for ransom or to be sold to the galleys. And since what’s good for one ought to be good for all, I asked to be allocated two gentlemen on a similar basis.’

  Eden choked on his wine. ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘What makes you think that? It’s a simple scheme which benefits everyone.’

  ‘Then I hope your chosen prisoners agree with you.’

  ‘I daresay they will,’ came the negligent reply. ‘But it might be more useful if you hoped they were wealthy.’

  There was a small pause during which Venetia cautiously unlocked her tongue.

  ‘I don’t believe you’re doing this for money.’

  Gabriel leaned back in his chair. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s not …’ She paused, gesturing helplessly. ‘Not the sort of thing you do.’

  A glimmer of surprise touched his eyes and then was gone. He said, abrasively, ‘It is now. With my pay substantially in arrears and Brandon Lacey hanging round my neck like the proverbial millstone, I’m lining my pockets as best I may.’ A deliberately mocking smile bracketed his mouth. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you – but blood will tell, as they say. And I thought I’d already given you ample demonstration of the fact that I’m no gentleman?’

  A tide of colour stained Venetia’s skin and, for a moment, she simply stared at him. Then, because Eden’s presence prevented her answering as she would have liked, she rose abruptly from the table and stalked from the room.

  The door clicked shut but Gabriel remained oddly still, frowning into space. Eden tolerated the ensuing silence as long as he could and then said impatiently, ‘All right. I give up. Venetia’s right. None of this is what it seems. So are you going to tell me what the hell you’re playing at or aren’t you?’

  ‘Since you ask so nicely – why not?’ Gabriel pulled a document from his pocket and laid it before the Major. ‘For reasons too illogical to explain, I’m trying to ensure there’s no question of Colonel Ambrose going to the gallows. But so my request didn’t look too personal – and because one might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb – I asked Henry for permission to select a second prize.’ He paused. ‘You’ll notice that the other name has been left blank.’

  Eden was suddenly very still. ‘Why?’

  ‘So that you can tell me what to write,’ sighed Gabriel, as though it was obvious.

  There was a short, awkward pause while Major Maxwell came to terms with his Colonel’s unexpected knowledge. Then, brusquely, ‘It’s Francis Langley – Celia’s brother. And I doubt he’s got sixpence to scratch with – let alone the means of ransoming himself.’

  The storm-grey eyes sharpened. ‘Does Venetia know him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Eden debated outlining his conversation with Venetia and then decided against it.

  ‘Good.’ A strange smile dawned. ‘Then once we have Messrs Langley and Ambrose locked up downstairs, the question of money may possibly become academic.’

  This time the silence reached epic proportions.

  ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’ asked Eden weakly.

  ‘I’m not saying anything at all. I’m merely keeping my options open.’ Gabriel reached for the wine-jug and placed it at the Major’s elbow. ‘Have another drink. You look as though you need it.’

  *

  On September 18th, a group of Parliamentary commissioners - which included Denzil Holles, Harry Vane and Lord Saye & Sele - opened forty days of controversial negotiation with His Majesty at N
ewport on the Isle of Wight. And in Cheapside, Colonel Brandon coolly informed his wife that he was installing two Royalist gentlemen in the empty workshop downstairs and a round-the-clock guard in the passage outside it.

  ‘For how long?’ she asked.

  ‘For as long as it takes our guests to purchase their freedom. But don’t worry. Wat will see that the place is made habitable for them and the guards will serve their meals – so there will be no need for you to see them. At all.’ He paused, eyeing her blandly. ‘You’re remarkably incurious. Don’t you want to know who I’ve decided to milk?’

  Venetia shrugged. ‘I’d rather got the impression that I wasn’t supposed to ask.’

  ‘Now, why should you think that?’

  ‘My fevered imagination, obviously. So who are they?’

  ‘One is the Cavalier inaccurately credited with the seduction of Samuel Radford’s sister. And the other, I rather suspect, is your mysterious friend from Colchester.’

  Her breath caught. Then all the tumblers clicked into place and the door to understanding swung partially open. Her instinct had been right. He wasn’t doing this for money. He was doing it to save two men from Parliamentary justice but, for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, he was intent on making her think otherwise.

  Allowing just the right degree of sarcasm to enter her gaze and with the first flicker of inspiration she’d felt in a month, she said, ‘I see. Then that will give you ample opportunity in which to establish whether or not you’ve any reason to be jealous, won’t it?’

  ‘Jealous?’ echoed Gabriel, caught unawares. ‘On your account? Hardly! How vain are you? Or do you simply not realise that jealousy requires some emotional involvement?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Dog-in-the-manger will do just as well. And since there’s not a shred of truth in your suspicions, I can’t imagine what else could cause them.’ She smiled kindly. ‘But of course I don’t expect you to admit it. And now I wish to change my dress and go out – unless I’m supposed to apply for leave of absence?’ And she drifted away, leaving him staring at her retreating back.